


The Ritual

by SaxSpieler



Series: Verǫld Vǫrðr [5]
Category: Runescape
Genre: Action, Angst, Blood, Gen, One Shot, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 20:45:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7284100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaxSpieler/pseuds/SaxSpieler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which almost everything that can go wrong does go wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ritual

**Author's Note:**

> How Finley's husband, Adrius dies, as well as what happens afterward.

Cold steel flashes, carving into her calf moments before something strikes her stomach and sends her careening into the snow.

She looks up, sees Khazard - that _bastard_ \- advancing toward her, and fumbles for her halberd.

She hears his taunts, sees him twirl his sword.

He wants to kill her.

She’s not going to let him. Not if she can help it.

But, she can’t.

Her halberd is too far away.

He’s too close.

Her leg won’t work fast enough.

She tries magic. Fire.

No, she’s out of runes.

She sees the sword raised high above her head.

It swings down.

She braces for the inevitable.

But, it never comes.

The sword falls harmlessly into the snow as a harsh cry pierces her ears. She looks up - Khazard’s hunched over, clutching his hand.

She sees the arrow stuck expertly into his wrist. It’s soon joined by several others, loosed in rapid succession. They bury themselves into Khazard’s arm, shoulder, and chest, driving him back, distracting him.

She looks to her right. There’s Adrius, _her husband,_ bow raised, his eyes trained on Khazard.

The sight alone gives her almost enough strength to stand again.

But, something’s not right.

There’s something behind him. Something that heard his cry. Something that now advances toward him, its jagged, crystalline arm raised and pointed at its back.

But, he doesn’t see it.

“ADRIUS,” she bellows. “BEHIND YOU!”

Time slows.

Adrius turns, bow drawn.

The very air condenses around the ice demon’s raised hand, turning solid.

An arrow is loosed.

The demon stumbles back.

Adrius falls.

There’s red.

Red on the snow.

Ice in Adrius’s chest.

He twitches.

Stops.

There’s red everywhere.

Everywhere.

_Adrius…_

Everything burns.

Her eyes, her lungs, her mind.

Her heart.

She doesn’t remember standing.

She doesn’t remember picking up her halberd and knocking Khazard over the head with it before he can recover.

She doesn’t remember shambling through the snow, headed toward the looming ritual marker.

All she remembers is finally releasing the raw, ancient power of that cursed stone that she had kept leashed ever since she touched it back in the cave. She feels it searing her mind, its energy arcing through her veins like lightning, igniting something horribly primal deep within her.

Her eyes find the one responsible. The one who summoned the ice demons to this battle in the first place.

Everything burns.

He will burn, too.

She opens her mouth and roars, the sound rattling her bones like an earthquake.

_“LUCIEN!”_

She doesn’t wait for him to turn around.

Halberd raised, she barrels toward the Mahjarrat, swinging the weapon into his back as hard as she can.

He barely flinches.

An arm, waved as if to swat a fly, comes around, catching her across the face and sending her tumbling. Shaking off the stars in her vision, she rolls and rights herself, launching at the towering figure once again with a howl.

Magic sears past her, shadowy and rancid, burning her skin with proximity alone. She shrugs it off, driving her halberd, and herself, into Lucien’s stomach, forcing him back a few steps.

“Bannbreker! What are you doing?” a voice calls to her. Azzanadra. “Stay back!”

_Don’t listen,_ she thinks, slashing and hacking at her target’s arms and chest. _Keep going!_

None of her hits make any mark. Lucien bats her halberd’s strikes away as if they were nothing.

“Wahisietel, get her out of there!”

Magic, verdant and fiery, strikes Lucien square in the face, followed shortly by a gloved fist. He stumbles back for a moment, enough time for arms to loop themselves around Finley’s waist and launch her into the air, away from the marker.

She lands in the snow, limbs akimbo. Flailing back to her feet, she spots Lucien, now fending off attacks from Wahisietel and Azzanadra.

She sees them coordinate attacks, moving in sync to beat Lucien back, step by step. Lucien drops to a knee under the weight of their strikes, and, for a moment, Finley worries.

_They’re going to do it. They’re going to kill him._

_NO!_

_HE’S MINE!_

Screaming, she charges.

She charges past Enakhra and Akthanakos as they grapple at each others throats.

She charges in between Azzanadra and Wahisietel, ignoring their shouts of protest.

She charges, halberd high, stone energy flowing through every muscle.

With all her might, she swings downward, aiming for the center of Lucien’s forehead.

Suddenly, her halberd is torn from her grasp, and a hand latches painfully tight around her throat.

Lucien had feinted.

He stands, dragging Finley skyward by her throat and whipping the Staff of Armadyl through the air, its pent-up magic sending Azzanadra and Wahisietel tumbling.

“I’ve had just about enough of you, _pest.”_

She tears at his hand, kicks at his chest, tries to break free, but to no avail.

He whirls around and slams her, shoulder first, into the ritual marker.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

_CRACK._

She hears, more than she feels, her bones break.

She hears herself screaming through the pain now wracking her body.

She hears Lucien’s laughter. He’s enjoying this.

And, he doesn’t stop.

Again and again, she’s driven into the cold stone, each impact breaking something new.

Then, she’s face-down in the snow.

For a moment, relief washes over her, the cold soothing some of her pain.

In the next, however, something drives into her lower back.

A booted foot.

She hears her ribs cracking and feels her spine straining as the air is driven from her lungs in a single, sputtering whimper.

Time passes.

Voices sound out around her.

The ground rumbles as if something’s being extracted from deep within the earth.

She heaves herself around, raising her head just enough to see.

Jhallan’s there, doubled over and shaking. His eyes flicker to her, and she sees fear there.

She claws at the ground, trying to get up – _she has to help_ – but she can’t.

The air boils, and Jhallan dissolves violently before her eyes, sending a wash of sharp, stinging energy surging through her that scrambling her senses and sends her back down into the snow.

She just lays there for a while, letting everything go numb while the world burns around her.

—

It’s getting harder to breathe.

Her back aches and her ribs creak, threatening to shatter with even the slightest motion.

Her leg wound, one of now many, leaks blood, dotting the snow as she passes.

Her arm is broken and dislocated, and it hangs awkwardly from her equally shattered shoulder.

The last sparks of the Stone of Jas’ energy still burn painfully in her chest, reminding her of her stupid, _stupid_ decision to even attend this gods-forsaken ritual in the first place.

Yet, she moves – drags herself - through the snow. Past Idria’s ashes, past Lucien’s staff-speared corpse, past everything.

Eventually, she reaches him - Adrius - and slumps to her knees like a discarded puppet.

She reaches out with a trembling hand.

She hopes - _oh Guthix, does she hope_ – that he’ll reach back.

Her hand comes to rest on his cheek.

It’s cold.

She brushes the hair from his eyes.

They’re empty.

She puts a hand on his chest.

It’s still.

With a cry like some feral animal, she tears the icy spears from his chest, lobbing them away as far as her good arm will allow, and throws herself over him, finally dissolving into broken sobs and feverish coughing.

It’s a while before she quiets.

Someone pulls her off of Adrius, despite her protests, and sits her upright once again.

A gloved hand, a spidery claw, strokes her hair and rubs her back.

There’s a voice, honeyed yet snake-like. Its owner whispers in her ear, comforting her, promising healing and safety if she would just stand and turn around.

She agrees – anything to make all of… _this_ …go away – and rises slowly, haltingly, to her feet.

There’s a flash of something shadowy, and she’s being thrown back down into the snow amidst the panicked yells of Sir Tiffy and the pained screams of Akrisae.

Her exhaustion finally overcomes her, and all goes dark.

—

It doesn’t hurt anymore.

It did for a moment, though.

The ice had skewered his heart and lungs – he had died almost instantly.

Or, had he?

He floats in a void, unaware of direction, dimension, or time.

It’s starting to scare him.

Something’s crawling up his spine, wending its way through every nerve. At first, it burns him, but then, it’s almost soothing. Comforting.

It whispers to him, beckons him, and leads him home as it devours him bit by bit.

_Where is home?_ he wonders, self-awareness slipping away with each passing second.

No answer.

_Who are you?_ he asks the shadows that consume him.

No answer.

_Who am I?_

A pair of sulfuric yellow eyes flash into existence before him.

He’s drawn to them, hungry for guidance and direction in this endless void.

_Who am I?_ he asks again, feeling an inexplicable urge to prostrate himself before those eyes, and whoever, or whatever owns them. _Please. Tell me._

“Why, my friend. The answer is quite simple.”

The voice snakes into his ears, driving every last memory, every last dream, and every last bit of willpower from Adrius’ mind.

_“You’re mine.”_

—

She hadn’t expected this.

Oh, she had expected to see Akrisae, or what was left of him, guarding the entrance to the Empyrean Citadel’s main hall with the rest of the Barrows Brothers.

But, she hadn’t expected _this._

She steps cautiously, making sure to stay within the beams of light that stream in from above. The masks taunt her, accusing her of being scared of the dark.

She’s scared, yes.

But not of the dark.

Most of the wights she had faced in this room had been easily lured into the light that could weaken them, allowing her to cut them all down fairly quickly.

Not this last one, however.

It strafes through the shadows, never once coming close enough to a light beam for her to even make it out completely, let alone damage it.

All she knows is that it wields a bow, if the arrow shaft sticking out of her upper arm is any indication.

This one is clever, and it scares her slightly.

Another arrow whizzes past her ear, striking the wall behind her, and her head whips around involuntarily, tracking its flight.

_It missed? I was standing still, how did it miss?_

She’s brought back by a stabbing pain in her thigh that brings her to her knees.

_Clever bastard,_ she thinks as she tears the arrow out of her thigh with a growl. Digging into one of her belt pouches, she extracts a handful of runes and urges them to liquefy in her palm. The bright, semi-solid mass of fire does little to illuminate the shadows around her, but she doesn’t care.

It’ll be enough.

She closes her hand around the fire and lets it grow, its energy threatening to burst through her fingers at any moment. Feeling the blood from her latest arrow wound seep through her trousers, she readies herself, loosening her grip on her halberd. She’ll need to be fast if this is going to work.

“Right, then,” she huffs, rising back to her feet. “Show yourself!”

With that, she whips her arm through the air, releasing the pent up fire in a blazing arc of crackling motes that, for a moment, drive back the looming shadows ever so slightly.

_There._

Directly across the room from her.

It starts to move, starts to run.

Quickly, she drops her halberd and slaps a hand to her leg wound, hard. Wincing, she then slams her blood-covered palm to the floor and pushes.

It hurts.

Ancient magic always hurts.

Tendrils, made of some writhing, red substance that could very well be the blood she used to conjure them, erupt from the floor, snagging the illusive wight by the ankles.

With a great, mental heave, she wills the tendrils to throw it into the opposite wall, the impact tearing its bow from its hands. Dismissing the tendrils, she barrels over, seizes the wight by its collar, and drags it into a spotlight.

One look at it is enough to make her blood curdle.

It’s clad in unfamiliar armor, and its face is obscured by a shadowy mask fashioned in Sliske’s image.

But, she knows who it is.

Who _he_ is.

He’s just a few inches taller than her, but slimmer. Bonier. His shoulders, though broad, bow forward, and he leans ever so slightly to one side, his head cocked in the opposite direction as if to compensate.

Heart pounding, she tears the mask off the wight’s face and stumbles backwards.

“A…Adrius?” she croaks.

The wight – Adrius – doesn’t answer. She tries again.

“Can you hear me?”

Still, no answer.

“Adrius. It’s me. Finley.” Her voice rises. “Please, say something.”

Nothing.

Shaking, she approaches him, placing a hand on his cheek. He doesn’t even twitch. His eyes just bore into hers, soulless and dead.

“I’m sorry, dear,” one of the masks calls out. “He’s not home at the moment. Care to leave a message?”

She grits her teeth, silently choking back the horribly caustic anger – no, _rage_ \- that boils up from her chest. It tears through her, goading her, begging to be let loose.

But, she holds it back.

_No. Not now, you bastard. Not now._

All that makes it out of her throat is a strangled something that sounds halfway between a laugh and a sob.

Her hand falls from Adrius’ cheek. Taking a deep breath, she steps back, picks up her halberd, and heads for the door that would take her one step closer to cleaving Sliske’s head from his shoulders.

“Have a nice da-”

The mask doesn’t get to finish its sentence.

It clatters unceremoniously to the floor in two jagged pieces, accompanied by a thunk of metal on wood and a singular, mournful wail that’s quickly swept away by the wind.


End file.
